


Drunks Don't Lie

by Radclyffe



Series: Consequences [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radclyffe/pseuds/Radclyffe
Summary: Take one drunk detective inspector, add one unlocked phone and one minor government official's private number and what do you get?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Consequences [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851130
Comments: 46
Kudos: 216





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Saw this comment on InevitablyJohnlocked Tumblr and it struck a chord 
> 
> So I was bored and decided to go on omegle spy mode... And I found this one guy who's question said "You may have an embarrassing story but, have you ever drunk called your co-worker and rambled about how in love with him you are? My stupid disaster gay came out.... I have to face him tomorrow! “and now all I can think about is how much I need a Johnlock AU (or Mystrade, either is good) ... Can someone with actual talent (aka not me) please write this for the good of humanity!
> 
> Not claiming to have any actual talent, and it turned out Mystrade rather than Johnlock but here it is

As retirement parties went it was ok; there was plenty of booze, food and the music wasn’t so bad. The back room of the _Dirty Duck_ was suitably crowded, ready to give the man a good send off, so why was he feeling so out of sorts?

Perhaps it was all a bit too close to home, Greg thought as he stared gloomily into his Bacardi and Coke. He and Bradstreet had started at the Met on the same day, that was thirty years ago. He was two years younger than Greg but somehow today was his last day in the force. How had that happened? Perhaps having woken up to the fact he was never going to make Chief Inspector, let alone Superintendent, Bradstreet had decided to cut his losses and get out while he was young enough to start again. Who would blame him? Taking his lovely wife, and even lovelier pension and sailing off into the sunset, or rather to the Cotswolds where he was intending to run a post office. His kids had turned out well too, one son in the force and another with his own business somewhere in Gloucestershire, and a grandkid on the way as well by the looks of the daughter-in-law. Yes, life had been kind to Bradstreet.

Greg drained his drink and went up to the bar for a refill.

Not that he was bitter, it wasn’t in his nature, but he couldn’t help comparing what he had to show for his thirty-year stretch. An ex-wife who had given him the run around for twenty years before finally ending the farce by going off with Amy’s PE teacher. What a fucking cliché!

The kids were a disappointment too; Amy was definitely following in her mother’s footsteps and Tom, with his Guy Fawkes mask and his anti-establishment protests, had no time for his old man except when he needed money.

He downed half his drink while still at the bar and ordered another one while he glanced around the room. Goodness, Sherlock had turned up! He usually avoided these sort of gatherings like the plague, but there he was holding court with a few of the rookie officers, gesticulating wildly and swaying ever so slightly. _Been on the babycham again, such a lightweight_.

Lestrade looked round again, if Sherlock was here then… yes there was John, at the other end of the bar talking to Dimmock. He waved and caught the doctor’s eye; Greg took his drinks back to his booth and was gratified to see John take his leave of Dimmock and make his way over to him. At least there was one poor sod who was even more out of place here than he was.

They caught up with a bit of news, Greg asked how Sherlock had successfully wrapped up a triple murder for Hopkins in a day and a half, while John showed off the latest couple of snaps of Rosie on his phone.

“What's wrong Greg?” John placed his pint down on the table and slipped off his jacket making himself comfortable, “you look like you lost a tenner and found tuppence.”

Greg shrugged, “Do you ever wonder what it is all about?”

“All what?”

“Life.”

“Don’t you start, I’ve just had Dimmock going on the same thing. What is it about a colleague’s retirement that brings on an existential crisis in the metropolitan police officer?”

“Only when the ones that have made a success of it go.”

“Wouldn’t have exactly called Bradstreet successful, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, he never rose through the ranks.” John looked over to where the guest of honour was talking to the Assistant Chief Constable. “But likeable enough, and prepared to work with his lordship which was always a bonus.”

“I meant the ones that actually managed to have a life outside the force and the guts to get on with it while they still can.”

John took a large draught of his beer and looked thoughtful. “Can’t see you as anything other than a copper to be honest.”

“True John, I’m stuck in this rut until my knees give out and I end up working as a security guard somewhere, spending my evenings watching CCTV until I peg out one night and I’m not missed for a fortnight.”

“Rubbish we’d miss you after a week… but you know Greg, if you really feel like that go for it, grab it with both hands; you’re still young enough to take the plunge, do something or meet someone new if that’s what you want.”

“Meet someone and take them back to my palatial bedsit in Battersea,” Greg raised a drunken eyebrow, “really?”

John demurred but Greg was on a roll. “With my track record I might as well pick some woman at random, give her a house and half my pension and spare myself decades of aggravation.”

John indicated Greg’s glass. “That’s the drink talking, spirits always make me maudlin.”

“Nah, don’t you ever feel like you’re living the wrong life, like you got off the bus at the wrong stop and you’ve been lost ever since?”

“Don’t I just,” John briefly touched his shoulder, “ex-army doctor, widower and full-time nursemaid to a mad detective… they never gave me that option in careers.”

Greg briefly sobered up and started to apologise but John put his hand out to stop him.

“Sorry Greg… hang on a minute… Sherlock!” Sherlock’s behaviour at social events was always unpredictable. From the other side of the room came the sound of raised voices, there seemed to be an altercation brewing. John sighed.

“Time for Cinderella to go home from the ball, I’m going to put him in a taxi before things get nasty, watch my coat, be back in jiffy.”

“Need a hand?”

“No… and to be honest mate, state you’re in, I don’t think you’d be much help if I did.”

Greg watched as John corralled the detective, arms still flailing towards the exit.

Greg wandered back up to the bar and ordered another double and a pint for John, swaying a little himself as he did so. He was necking these pretty fast, not sure why he’d gone for spirits tonight instead of his usual beer. Perhaps it was Bradstreet’s retirement that was making him mourn his lost youth.

Bacardi and coke, it took him straight back to his early twenties, trying to summon up the courage to pull some dish on the dance floor in _Heaven,_ already in the Force, uniform then, and as deeply confused and closeted as anyone could be. After a couple of failed efforts, he’d chucked exploring that side of his sexuality for a conventional life of heterosexual bliss and look where that had got him.

He sat down again, just as John’s coat buzzed. He ignored it until it buzzed again. Greg considered for a moment; he wouldn’t normally bother with someone else’s phone but then it might be Mrs H who was dutifully babysitting Rosie this evening.

He ferreted the phone out of John’s pocket, it wasn’t locked, John never bothered with passwords, Sherlock deduced them anyway.

**“Wait outside, car with you in 12. MH”**

Of course, Big Brother would know that Sherlock was in this pub, wasted and in need of an escort home. Perhaps he had better reply, message received and understood, but the letters on the keyboard swam a little as he tried to text, and he seemed to have too many thumbs, so he gave up and pressed dial.

It went straight to voicemail.

Greg rang off without leaving a message, bloody Mycroft Holmes. Greg paused and reflected on his lifelong weakness for a certain kind of buttoned up posh boy as epitomised by Mycroft Holmes. Bollocks, what had got into him this evening? It couldn’t just be that another of his contemporaries was retiring that left him feeling that life was passing him by.

People thought that Mycroft Holmes had no heart, the Iceman that woman had called him, he’d seen it in a report. But they didn’t know the Mycroft Holmes that Greg knew, or at least they hadn’t seen what he’d seen, that dreadful night after the mad sister had gone on the rampage. Who had they called for then? Heh? Who had been there to sort out the mess?

Boy she was the scary one, made Mycroft look like a kitten… he paused and savoured the image, a little ginger kitten, he would sit him on his lap and make him purr…

Any road, where was he? That was it, saw another side of Mycroft Holmes that night, saw the soft underbelly. Wouldn’t mind seeing it again and that wasn’t all he wouldn’t mind seeing.

What had John said? Grab it with both hands, well that was just what he was going to do. Totally reckless and fuelled by alcohol he picked up the phone and pressed redial.

Straight to voicemail… again.

“Good evening Mr...” He slurred, stopped and tried again “Good hello Myc… Mikey, Mikey, Mike. You know who this is. It’s me, you can probably see me on the camera, tell me where it is and I’ll wave.” Greg ineffectually waved at the corner of the room, a couple of officers from special branch waved back.

“As I was saying,” Greg paused again, what had he been saying? “As I was saying, he told me to grab it with both hands, and so I am going to… grab it that is.”

Greg stopped again, taking a moment to visualise exactly what it was he intended to grab.

“Please end your call and hang up.”

No, No, No, he hadn’t finished.

Greg quickly pressed redial again, impatiently arguing with the voicemail messaging service, he politely told the woman where to go.

“Listen, it was Sherlock who told me to look after you… I’d look after you all right, you could sit on my lap and purr, Mr Ginger Kitty, I’d look after you, treat you nice and give you a good seeing to just what you need,” Greg smiled to himself. “Fancy you rotten… always have, those legs, blimey, I’d make you walk differently in the morning.”

Satisfied, Greg rang off and put the phone back down on John’s seat. He saw off his drink and half of John’s pint for good measure, then decide he needed a slash. Only there seemed to be a problem with his legs, or maybe it was the table legs because the next thing he knew he was on the floor staring at them. He closed his eyes to make them go away.

When he opened his eyes again, Donovan and her twin sister were peering over him. Funny, never knew that she was a twin. Fancy working with someone all these years and not knowing something like that? Greg was about to say something when the sister disappeared to be replaced by a short ex-army doctor with a grim expression.

“Not another one. Here you two help me get him up.”

The two officers who had had to move sharply out of they way when Greg hit the decks were quick to obey the command.

“Sherlock’s in the car,” Greg heard John explain to Sally “I only came back to get my coat. I think he’d better come back to Baker Street with us.”

Sally seemed to approve of this decision, but Greg had more urgent things on his mind.

“Need a piss.”

“Ok, we’ll go to Baker Street via the gents. Night Sally, I think someone’s going to be feeling rather embarrassed in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Knight to g4 and check mate!_

Mycroft Holmes saluted his opponent, the computer programme he affectionate referred to as Sheldon, and sighed. He was beating Sheldon far too often and rather quickly; this last game had been over in three hours. Time for an upgrade perhaps?

He checked his watch, two fifteen, he supposed he could fit in an hour’s work before bed. Then he remembered that, distracted by a surprise attack on his bishop by Sheldon’s rook, he had ignored three calls from John Watson on his private phone.

Mycroft was not particularly concerned about this; Sidney, his driver, had reported the safe delivery of a belligerent Sherlock, an exasperated John and, in an unexpected addition, a supremely intoxicated DCI Lestrade to Baker Street some hours ago. All had been quiet since then, but it was unusual for John to acknowledge his interventions with anything other than a curt text so perhaps he ought to check.

The first voicemail was brief, a short burst of muffled noise then hastily cut off. A pocket call, Mycroft concluded, as John obviously tried to manhandle a drunken Sherlock out of the pub. Mycroft pressed three to delete. Probably the other two were the same but he might listen to them anyway.

Message number two began with the same muffled background noise but then a voice he almost recognised slurred “Good evening Mr...”

The voice stopped, Mycroft heard people laughing, glasses clinking, and snatches of an inane nineties pop song before the voice began again “Good hello Myc… Mikey, Mikey, Mike,” and then another long pause. Mycroft was bemused. Was someone using John’s phone to get hold of a person called Michael, Mike Stamford perhaps, John kept in contact with him.

The speaking stopped abruptly and there was more of the general hum of a busy public house. Then just as suddenly the voice was back.

“You know who this is.”

Mycroft relaxed, he did indeed know who it was, the cockney twang overlaying but not completely masking the West Country burr, he would recognise that combination anywhere. None other than the rather inebriated Inspector Lestrade.

“It’s me, you can probably see me on the camera, tell me where it is, and I’ll wave.” 

Mycroft groaned inwardly; he did not have cameras in every obscure watering hole in London, despite what his brother and Dr Watson put about. Sometimes he relied on far more prosaic forms of surveillance, like the spy in the Met who had informed him earlier of his brother’s activities.

“As I was saying.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently, really Lestrade did sound terribly drunk, which was quite out of character for the officer, he would feel very sorry for himself in the morning, not helped by a night on the Baker Street couch.

“As I was saying, he told me to grab it with both hands, and so I am going to… grab it that is.”

Unlike his younger brother, Mycroft Holmes did not have friends. He had colleagues, and associates and even the occasional encounter but not friends. He regarded almost every person he met as on the same developmental level as goldfish, but Gregory Lestrade… he at least had earned the status of a koi carp. They went back a long way, he and Lestrade, back to the days when the policeman had just been a sergeant and Mycroft had not attained the lofty heights of his present position. They had been thrown together through Sherlock’s frequent brushes with the wrong side of the law and been connected through this shared burden ever since, a duty which hadn’t lapsed even when Dr Watson had arrived on the scene.

The man had obviously achieved some drunken epiphany last night, in the way drunks often do, though why he had decided to share this with him, Mycroft could not imagine. Mycroft would have very nearly been touched if such a reaction were in his repertoire. As a singularly friendless individual he had not had much experience of being taken into another person’s confidence, not without the application of thumb screws at least.

Mycroft let his mind speculate as to what the inspector had decided to grab with both hands. He pictured the scenario, Inspector Bradstreet’s retirement party, the public house crowded with present and former colleagues of Bradstreet and therefore of his exact contemporary Lestrade. With an excess of alcohol and bonhomie, it was easy to deduce Lestrade’s train of thought. Such occasions inevitably caused one to step back from one’s present circumstances and led to questioning the life choices that had been made up to that point and even the urge to seek a different path before it was too late.

Selfishly Mycroft hoped that Lestrade was not tempted to follow Bradstreet into early retirement. As far as Sherlock was concerned the man was irreplaceable.

Mycroft was awoken from this reverie as the voicemail message ended abruptly and an automated voice cut in.

“Message three.”

“…Know…get on with it missus.” Lestrade appeared to be arguing with the recorded message Mycroft chuckled.

“Listen.” Lestrade’s voice took on an urgent tone “It was Sherlock who told me to look after you…” Mycroft felt a cold chill pass over him, any allusion to the fateful events almost a year ago where he had been witness to five violent deaths, and faced his own and that of his brother and Dr Watson; and then had feared them both lost as he had sat for twelve hours locked in her own cell was unwelcome and brought back undesirable memories.

It was true that Lestrade had ‘looked after him’; although the medics that had liberated him from Sheringford had tried to insist of his admission to hospital, the Inspector had discerned that Mycroft’s recovery could only begin once he assumed full control of himself and the situation again. Lestrade had accompanied him home, poured them both a stiff whiskey and then dutifully ensured that Mycroft’s wishes were carried out. The inner sanctum had sprung into action, Sherringford had been secured and Eurus, poor creature, contained. Only then had Mycroft allowed himself to falter, and then break down completely. The Inspector, who had been the only witness, had taken it in his stride and neither of them had spoken of it since.

Lestrade was rambling on, his speech was very slurred, and Mycroft had to strain to make out the words “I’d… look after… you could … o.. lap…my… Ginger Kitty, I’d … “

Mycroft pondered, was Lestrade thinking of getting a cat? It seemed something of an anti-climax that his drunken revelations should end in something so mundane. Then Lestrade’s voice came through quite clearly.

“..and give you a good seeing to…” 

Mycroft instantly cut the call, and reached for the decanter, pouring himself three fingers of the single malt. He was in shock.

 _A good seeing to_ , that was what Lestrade had said, give you, that is him, he, Mycroft a good seeing to.

A good seeing to in Mycroft’s experience meant six of the best from the headmaster in front of the whole school, or otherwise a drubbing by a gang of the older boys. As a exemplary student Mycroft had not experienced the first but as a fat, ginger, swot his early school years had featured plenty of the second.

Why the inspector, whom he had always treated with the utmost courtesy and respect, would suddenly take it upon himself to threaten Mycroft with violence he simply could not comprehend. Unless it spoke of some underlying deep resentment, it must have come from somewhere. Did Lestrade believe he had treated his brother, or even his sister badly. Mycroft shook away a slight feeling of hurt, he had never imagined that Lestrade would be a mean drunk.

He did not believe in the adage that drunks could not lie, in his book a liar was a liar drunk or sober, but Lestrade was an essentially truthful man, and the alcohol would only make him more so.

An hour passed, all thoughts of turning in for the night banished, Mycroft mulled over the dilemma without reaching any conclusion other than the first. He poured himself another three fingers of scotch, at this rate he would be catching Lestrade up fast.

“A good seeing to,” he muttered aloud.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand that question.” Alexa had sprung into life; it gave Mycroft an idea.

“Alexa, definition of ‘a good seeing to’?”

The lights on the device lit up with activity and the automated voice replied.

“A good seeing to - the act of hitting someone repeatedly and hard.”

Just as he had thought, but Alexa hadn’t finished.

“Humorous - the act of having sexual intercourse with someone.”

Mycroft felt faint, how had he forgotten the phase had a second meaning, but then it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one heard in the circles he mixed in. He took hold of his phone and quickly pressed redial on his voicemail messages, but this time he let the message play to the end to see if it would confirm his suspicions.

“…give you a good seeing to just what you need.” Mycroft could almost hear Lestrade smiling “Fancy you rotten… always have, those legs, blimey, I’d make you walk differently in the morning.”

“Oh fuck!” Mycroft said out loud, causing Alexa to cough, “Oh buggering fuck fuck.” Mycroft said again as forty years of carefully constructed façade crumbled into dust and a dozen years of suppressed longing rushed up to take its place.

Swearing didn’t make the problem go away but kept his mind occupied so Mycroft tried variations on a theme for fifteen minutes while he knocked back his drink. Then he listened to message again.

It was indisputable.

Gregory Lestrade, silver fox, Mycroft’s ideal combination of rough and smooth had just declared his intention to do exactly what Mycroft had wanted him to do since the first time they’d met. More than that even…

Mycroft concluded he rather thought he wouldn’t mind a good seeing to, and DI Lestrade was exactly the man for the job.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of reckoning

Nearby a pneumatic drill was pounding the road, while out in the street a brass band marched by. Greg groaned and opened his eyes, to discover to his horror he had gone blind in the night. No, not blind, as his brain informed him that his face was pressed up against a wall of some kind of stuffed material. He closed his eyes again, praying for the blessed relief of sleep, except the brass band wouldn’t let him. He rolled to onto his other side and nearly landed on the floor, it appeared his bed had shrunk in the night. Bewildered, he cracked open an eye, squinting in the sunlight and focused on the chair in his immediate line of vision. It contained a bowl, a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol. Behind the chair he could just make out the fabulous flocked wallpaper of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street. Vague memories of the night before came back to him, Bradstreet and his family, knocking back the Bacardi and Cokes, Sherlock arguing the toss with someone, hitting the decks pretty hard. He hoped that was the worst of it.

Greg groaned again half in pain and half in embarrassment; he consulted his stomach, concluded the bowl was not required, reached for the glass of water and drank half of it down, then decided he should attempt the paracetamol. He fumbled with the child proof lock, of course such things were now necessary at Baker Street where an energetic toddler ruled the roost, before accepting defeat. It required too much effort on his part.

A shrill whistle invaded his head, setting off the pneumatic drill again. It was followed by more harmonious whistling which heralded the arrival of his host.

“Good Morning, sleeping beauty, and how are we feeling today?”

“John, for the love of God, could you keep it down a bit, mate.”

“NOT REALLY!”

“Seriously? You’ve kept that one up your sleeve for over three years?”

“Sure have,” John replied with a triumphant tone, as he deftly undid the paracetamol bottle and handed a couple to Greg along with the glass of water. “Here take these… you’ll live. Now what do you want first, coffee or a quick shower before his nibs gets up and takes all the hot water?”

Greg rather a thought a shower sounded appealing and said so.

“There’s a towel and a spare toothbrush in the cupboard, you should scrub up well enough not to scare the other passengers on the tube on your way home.”

******

The shower was bliss, Greg disregarded John’s more utilitarian brands, and Rosie’s Peppa pig variety and helped himself liberally to Sherlock’s poncey shower gel and shampoo, and while he had no choice but to dress in yesterday’s clothes as he glanced in the mirror as he left the bathroom he both looked and felt a hundred times better than he had expected to. He could almost begin to face breakfast.

Greg found John in the sitting room with a pot of coffee and gratefully accepted the mug that was handed to him, and sat back down on the couch, now free of his bedding.

“No Rosie?”

“Still downstairs. I didn’t want her scarred for life by seeing you in your boxer shorts.”

Greg looked sheepish.

“I might have rather overdone it last night.”

“You could say that.”

“Anyone I need to apologise to?”

“Don’t think so Greg; you were plastered but so were a lot of people. You fell over in the pub and again going up our stairs, but one of the good things about living here is that Mrs Hudson has seen it all before and done most of it. You didn’t proposition anyone or heckle during Bradstreet’s speech, you might get a bit of joshing on Monday, but we’ve all been there.”

There were sounds of movement from Sherlock’s bedroom, followed by the shower starting up.

“Good, he’s awake, I’ll just text Mrs H to tell her I’ll be down in fifteen minutes, and then I’ll do breakfast. You can have something with us if you haven’t got to dash off… Funny…”

John stopped talking and peered at his phone.

Greg looked at John; he had a bad feeling about something but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“What’s funny?”

“Mycroft texted me last night and it looks like I called him back, three times no less” John shrugged and “Ten to eleven. Must have knocked my phone when I was herding you into the… what is it?”

Greg groaned again, it seemed all he was capable of this morning, he felt sick, what had John done with the bowl?

“Are you ok, thought of Mycroft making you nauseous. He has that effect on people.”

Greg shook his head, he tried to speak but no words came out. His face must have given something away though as John wasn’t fooled.

“Come on man, spit it out.”

“What?” Greg croaked.

“Whatever it is that’s stuck in your gullet.”

There was a long pause, a very long pause, John finished his text and then stared pointedly at the inspector. There was no way John was going to let it pass; Greg took a deep breath.

“It was me.”

“What?

“It’s all coming back to me; I used your phone to call Mycroft last night.”

“Whatever for?”

“To tell him what I think of him.”

John seemed to find this amusing and burst out laughing, when after some minutes this subsided, he said, “You told Mycroft some home truths and yet you live? I wouldn’t worry about it mate, Sherlock does that at least three times a week, even I have a go sometimes. He’ll have heard much worse from the Koreans… water off a duck’s back.”

Greg put his head in his hands and whispered, “it wasn’t exactly home truths, John. I told Mycroft Holmes what I’d like to do to him…” then rallying a bit, he added “and I hope Sherlock’s never said anything along the lines of what I did.”

John was about to reply when he was distracted by Sherlock emerging, suited, booted and coiffed to the nines, from his bedroom. Greg reflected that Sherlock had no business to look so put together considering the state he had been in the night before, you’d think he would at least have the grace to be hungover, although Greg supposed with the amount of abuse Sherlock had given his body over the years alcohol probably didn’t make that much of a dent.

John poured Sherlock a coffee and handed it to him.

“What’s the matter with him?” Sherlock asked in his usual blunt manner indicating Lestrade.

“He’s having flashbacks, used my phone last night to make threatening calls to your brother.”

“Really?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow, “Never knew Gilbert had it in him.”

Greg had had enough, “I am here you know, and my name is Greg, which you also know, and they weren’t threatening phone calls, at least not in the way you’re talking about, I only wish they had been.”

A penny dropped, and both men turned to look at Greg stunned before John collapsed with laughter. His infectious giggling set Sherlock off, and it was a few minutes before either man was capable of speech.

“Thank you both, I’m glad someone finds it funny.”

John tried, rather unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. “You are honestly telling me, that while I was outside trying to hail a cab, you used my phone to booty call Mycroft Holmes, oh Greg what have you done?”

All three were silent then, as they contemplated the enormity of that Question.

“Do you think he’s heard them?”

“No.” Sherlock said with conviction, “he has minions who listen to his messages for him.”

Greg, relaxed flopping back down on the couch, “Oh thank Christ for that! I mean, they won’t know it was me, will they?”

John scowled at Sherlock and muttered “stop it” under his breath before turning to Greg.

“No, you dopey wazzock. You called Mycroft’s ultra private number, only four people in the world have it, Anthea, Sherlock, his mother and me… if he hasn’t listened to them yet, it’s only a matter of time.”

Meanwhile Sherlock had wandered over to the window. “I can tell you with absolute certainty that he has heard them.”

Greg gasped, “Is that another one of your deductions?”

“No need to deduce anything, his car’s just pulled up outside.” Sherlock turned back to face the room and said in his most dead pan voice “Well Inspector, it appears your milkshake does bring all the boys to the yard.”

Greg was off the couch in an instant, panic across his features. “Where can I hide? There must be a fire escape… What about upstairs, John’s room? Doesn’t the window open out onto the roof?... Sherlock! Help me, this is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“If you hadn’t got vocal in the pub last night., Mycroft wouldn’t have had to send that text, John wouldn’t have left his phone and I wouldn’t have been able to make those calls, so your fault.”

“Don’t quite follow your logic, Lestrade, but even so you’re too late.”

In the silence that followed they clearly heard a heavy tread on the stairs. All three turned towards the door.

John took control. “Right! Whatever is going to happen next doesn’t require an audience. Sherlock… with me.”

Both Sherlock and Greg protested, but for different reasons.

“Don’t leave me,” Greg pleaded.

“Sorry mate, you’re on your own.” John said, just as the door opened.

“Morning Mycroft. Sherlock, I said you, me, Rosie, Speedy’s – now. We’ll leave you to it.”

John bundled a reluctant Sherlock out of the door, as it closed their peals of laughter echoed on the stairs.

Flustered, and aware he was not at his best, Greg compensated by trying to play host, offering Mycroft coffee and a seat, both of which he declined. Greg cursed the man for being so utterly composed, and for not sitting down, which meant that Greg, who was really feeling quite faint ended up standing too. Greg decided the only way to survive the ordeal was to face it head on.

“Look what I said last night,” He began, “Those messages…”

“I sincerely hope, Inspector, that you’re not about to say they were the result of a dare or a bet.”

Greg, who had been toying with both excuses, was effectively silenced.

Mycroft examined his fingernails and said idly “I understand it is claimed that drunks, along with dreamers, find it impossible to lie.”

Greg latched onto the comment and replied, “Having arrested more than enough drunks to last a lifetime, I wouldn’t agree.”

“I concur, a liar when drunk will lie to save his neck, it is the fundamentally honest man who will struggle. You are, I believe a fundamentally honest man, are you not Inspector?”

The fingernails received another perusal. Greg could stand it no longer.

“Look Mycroft, if you are going to have me done for sexual harassment, just say so, the Chief will have my resignation on his desk first thing Monday morning.”

“Not at all, Inspector, nothing could be further from my mind.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Well, as you ask so directly. I would like to take you up on your kind offer.”

“My kind offer?”

“I hope you are not going to make a habit of repeating everything I say, Gregory it could make any association between us quite wearing.”

“Association?”

Mycroft inclined his head by way of warning and Greg stuttered an apology. Mycroft continued. “According to your telephone message, which we have verified to be the truth, you apparently ‘fancy me rotten’ and rather to my consternation, although I have had some years to acclimatise to the idea, I feel the same… Do sit down, my dear, before you fall down.”

Greg sat down rather heavily on the couch.

“Perhaps I will join you.” Mycroft settled himself next to Greg, “Where were we? Your offer, something about a good seeing to?”

“Do you have to be quite so literal?”

“Did you not mean it?” Mycroft’s composure faltered a little.

“No, I mean yes, I did mean it, but I wasn’t thinking straight...” Mycroft smiled. “Stop it, I just mean we’re not kids, neither of us, sorry, this is probably going a bit fast, but I’m not looking for just a hook up, so if that’s all you’re after… I’d rather we knocked this on the head before it gets too messy.”

“I’m amenable to exploring all possibilities. If it helps Gregory, I have liked you for a long time.”

“Have you?" Greg registered his surprise before continuing, "It does, thanks.”

“Good. We can work out the finer details at leisure.”

Mycroft took a small black book from his inside jacket pocket, it turned out to be a diary “I took the liberty, I hope you have no objections, of downloading your rotas for the next six months this morning. We are both busy men, and I thought it would save valuable time if I knew when you were likely to available.

“I see that, barring incidents of national importance we are both free next Friday evening, shall we have dinner and take it from there?”

Mycroft smiled again, but Greg now recognised it as masking nerves.

“Sure, I’ll get my people to call your people.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Joke… Mycroft.”

“Ah yes, a joke… very good.”

“You really do have people, don’t you?”

“Yes, Gregory, I am afraid I really do.”

“It’s going to take a bit of getting used to.”

“I hope you are willing to try.”

“Yes, my dear, I’m willing to try.”

They sat on the couch together for some time, not talking or touching but with the air of having settled something.

Greg sighed “Those two are going to dine out on this for years.”

“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

“Seems a bit much, when they can’t even sort their own act out.”

“Perhaps we could give them a little push.” Mycroft reached over to pick up John’s phone from where it lay on the coffee table, as ever it was unlocked.

“Now let me see,” Mycroft quickly typed a text then took out his own phone.

“It’s no good,” Greg observed “They’re down in Speedy’s together. Sherlock’ll know the text isn’t from John.”

“Ah but you see I have on my phone a useful little addition developed by our American cousins. It clones any phone you put it against, like so, and can set a delivery time for the text and make the message disappear. Perhaps you’d care to take a look before I press send.”

Greg leaned in a little close, taking the opportunity to breathe in the scent of this gorgeous man, his gorgeous man apparently, as he read what Mycroft had typed.

“Yes, I think that might do the trick, go for it,” reading the text one last time before it disappeared.

**“Sweetheart, when are you going to divorce your work and marry me? JW”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure Mycroft will have access to anything he so chooses


End file.
